


If I Were (Same But Different)

by Leaves_on_the_ground



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leaves_on_the_ground/pseuds/Leaves_on_the_ground
Summary: AU, modern setting. John and Paul have been dating for quite some time now, and John is ready to take their relationship to the next level. He's sure about the depth of his feelings for Paul and wants to move in together. But what if he's the only one who regards their relationship seriously?





	1. In which John steals Paul’s clothes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm back! This is my new fic that I'm planning to post every day except weekends to make up for my long absence.  
> Anyway, here's the first two chapters for today! Enjoy :) 
> 
> P.S. I don't feel like finishing my previous fanfic right now ... I hope you understand.

“Where the hell are my clothes, John?” said very angry and very naked Paul McCartney, rummaging around the bedroom and sending his boyfriend annoying looks. It seemed that at least half of Paul’s wardrobe had mysteriously disappeared since the day he started dating his adored lover seven months ago. Well, not exactly ‘disappeared’ but had been replaced -– no, _borrowed_ as it’d been claimed by John who had a penchant for stealing ( _borrowing!)_ his partner’s garms.

“Dunno, my angel,” said John, who as well as Paul had been dressed in nothing but a white sheet around his hips, still lolling about in bed, and _(who resembled one of the Olympians with his nudity, and his aquiline nose, and those curls of his auburn hair, and--)_ who grinned like a Cheshire cat and stretched his hands above his head, openly admiring Paul -- the tousled raven-black strands of his hair and big, drowsy eyes.  “Have you checked in the living room, mm? You know, you were an absolute beast yesterday,” John added dreamily.

“John,” Paul said firmly and, in spite of being outright flattered, pointed his finger menacingly at his lover. “Unlike you, who sits at home for weeks, I have to go to work. Now! Where’s my shirt?”

“Yep, it’s great to be a freelancer,” John winked. “And to answer your question: no idea, sweetie. But you can always take summat of mine.”

“My wardrobe’s full with yer rags! Oi, speaking of wardrobes,” as he said it, Paul headed straight away towards the said furniture. He opened it with a swoosh and at once a few t-shirts fell down on the floor from the most jam-packed shelf. “You’re a swine, darling,” Paul chuckled, taking a good look at the horrendous mess that was his lover’s sense of neatness. “I think, I understand now why you’re stealing my clothes, you dirty sod.”

“I don’t steal them. _I borrow_ , Honey Bun.”

“Yeah, right,” Paul sighed. Sometimes John’s nicknames made him wonder if he actually remembered his, Paul’s, real name. Finally, after some indefinite period of time, he managed to find something clean and decent and, of course, something that belonged to him. This was his shirt, goddammit! “Can you at least give me back my briefs?” he asked without any trace of hope in his voice while putting _his_ shirt on and fastening up the buttons.

As a reply, John puckered his lips and opened his arms. Paul heaved a theatrical sigh, bent over the bed, and pressed his mouth against John’s, who immediately embraced his lover and flipped him on the back. With a victory smirk, John bestrode his boyfriend, holding Paul’s wrists tightly in a grip over his head. The sheet around John’s waist wrinkled between their bare groins, teasingly tickling the skin. John kissed Paul fully on the mouth for a long, lazy minute. Savouring Paul’s lips, John loosed his grasp and cupped Paul’s cherry and plump and round cheeks with his palms. They snogged like that for a little bit longer before Paul finally broke the kiss.

“My briefs, John,” he said in a husky voice, his lips red and moist, his uncombed, black hair spread out on the pillow.

“Don’t you wanna… continue?” John batted his eyelashes.

“I would like that, Johnny, but I have to work,” Paul chuckled and pushed John off him. He stood up, holding his hand with the palm up, lifting his eyebrow in a straightforward fashion. “I’m waiting.”

John groaned and reached his arm under the pillow under his head, dragging out a pair of black briefs. Grinning mischievously, he spinning them around on his index finger. Paul rolled his eyes and as he did so the briefs hit him right into his face.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Paul muttered, bending over to pick up his hard-earned trophy. Now he had to get back his trousers along with his socks: the parts of the clothes had always been the easiest ones to bring back, seeing that, apparently, John didn’t have a kick out of wearing Paul’s socks and his jeans, which were a size smaller from John’s, and he might just couldn’t pull them on and button up.

“That’s fifth time this month,” John pondered, staring intently at Paul who was putting his underwear on. “But I know that you secretly love it, you love changing clothes with me just the way I do.” Unexpectedly, John jumped to his feet on came close to Paul. “Admit it, you LOVE IT to walk all day long in my shirts or sweaters and smell _me_ all over you, don’t you, dear?” John smiled, entwining his arms around Paul’s waist. “Because I do love it, _Paul_. I love going to bed wearing your t-shirt and feel your smell enveloping me during the night when we’re not together.” John placed his forehead against Paul’s and carried on in a whisper. “You smell like morning dew and lilies of the valley, like fresh-baked bread and coconut... that’s how you smell.”

The words made Paul tremble like an aspen leaf. Nobody had ever told him anything like this. Perhaps it was because John had been his second boyfriend and before him Paul dated only girls so previously he had been the one who was supposed to say things like that, right? Maybe… But in this new relationship with John they were both equal with no strict roles to define _who was the man_. Paul knew that John had had more relationships with men than him and one of those relationships had been of severe nature that pinned the roles down through and through. Therefore, it was John who had to be ‘the man’ between him and his ex-partner Jesse, a willowy, blond-headed block. At first, John had truly liked it –- always being the one on top, always deciding what food they should order, always being in charge what to do or where to go –- but soon the novelty had faded away and John quickly lost the interest in it. At one point, John had figured he didn’t like making all the decisions in every aspect of his relationship with someone else; it just wasn’t a healthy, mature union. Besides, more than often John had revelled in being the sentimental one.

Paul didn’t know how to answer. He moved his face a little bit closer and caught John’s lips with his own, hoping to put everything he’d felt in the kiss, in this affectionate touch when words are unavailing to express feelings. A profound fondles enveloped his heart, and for a moment Paul thought, almost felt, that he’d become weightless, that only John’s lips were holding him tenderly in place. His fingertips gently stroked John’s cheeks, his neck, and his soft hair; and John pressed himself closer, his belly against Paul’s, standing there in the middle of the bedroom, with nothing on, and melting in his lover’s kiss.

“I should go now,” Paul whispered, forcing himself to tear away from John's strong, gentle hands.

“I know,” John responded and pulled away. He silently headed towards the bathroom where the rest of Paul’s garments had been hanging on the clothesline in expectation for their legal owner.

***

When Paul returned back home from work, he couldn’t stop thinking about John’s words describing his scent. Did he really smell like that? No, of course not. It was just John being John –- too poetic and madly in love.

Can a human have a fragrance of morning dew or spring flowers or freshly cut hay? Well, certainly if this person spends half of a day in the fields or meadows and takes in the air of it. The cigarettes and coffee, cheap colognes and sweat –- that were the familiar strong smells of the day-to-day life, the regular whiffs of the cities, big or small.

Paul flopped into the settee in a small two-room flat which he’d been renting with his brother Mike, who recently had realized that he wanted to move in with his girlfriend. They’d been going out for only two months and yet Mike decided to dwell with her under the same roof. And Paul… he had the most long-lasting relationship in his entire life and still something had been holding him firmly back to take a decision whether or not he wanted to live with John.    

Paul had never loved anybody the way he loved John. So why he was so afraid of moving in together? In fact, John had already asked Paul about that, but well -- John had asked him _many_ things, anyway. If truth be told, John had actually asked him to marry him… trice. And two times of those proposals were right after sex. But something was purring inside of Paul’s chest that if he’d actually said yes, John would have been the first one standing in line to a jeweller’s shop early in the morning.

Paul smiled at the thought of that.

The scent of the morning dew… Paul straightened his hand and folded one of his sleeves up to the upper arm before pressing his nose to the place where he was extremely ticklish: the inside part of the elbow. He sniffed himself and… and he was greatly disappointed. Nothing but soap … _and musk?_

After all, John had a very fertile imagination.

With a sigh, Paul stood up and went to his bedroom to his neat and well-organized wardrobe with one shelf being completely dedicated to John’s clothes -– all washed and clean.

Damn. _They were washed._

Paul picked one of the t-shirts, sniffed it, and smelled nothing but a laundry powder; a lavender washing powder, to be specific.

Damn it again.

From now on, Paul was desperate to put into words the true scent of his lover.


	2. In which Paul distracts John from his work

It was Tuesday evening and the sun was setting down when John seated himself in front of his computer with a determinate disposition to start working. He had twenty pages of editing and one article to write. Thus, a cup of freshly-prepared aromatic coffee had strategically been placed on the beverage coaster (Paul’s gift for no reason) which looked like an LP record. Today he had ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ by Pink Floyd painted on his wooden coaster. And he’d be damned if Paul wasn’t a flipping wizard, given that his boyfriend had actually tamed him to use those bloody coasters every time now his hand would reach for a mug.

The Windows had already welcomed John when his mobile phone vibrated with an ingoing call from Hottie McHaughty displayed on the lock screen. 

Well then. The work could be postponed for a while.

“What’s up, kitten?” John asked leisurely, slouching his back against the armchair. He put his right shin over his left knee, his head thrown back.

“Hi, Johnny. Have you done with yer work yet?”

“Er. Almost?”

“Oi, pardon me!” Paul laughed. “Have you _started_ yer work yet?”

“Er. Almost?” John chuckled. “But I’m halfway through it, you know. And I’ve already made myself a coffee and it’s now placed right on one of yer coasters. Thank you, by the way. There’re actually pretty useful, who'd have thought that, you know!”

“Glad to hear. So… I take it, yer busy tonight?”

“Actually,” John quickly clicked on his mailbox and the chills went down his spine at the unpleasant sight of umpteen of unread emails of unpaid bills from his landlord, who was clearly becoming intolerable of John’s long-running insolvency. “No… er, I mean yes! I’m sorry, Paulie, but yes, I’m actually busy.”

“Pity, luv.” Paul sighed. “I miss you so much right now.”

John smiled even though Paul couldn’t see him.

“I miss you too, mister! But you know what?”

“What?”

“Basically, you can come visit me. Just for an hour or two, huh? What do you say?”

“I say yes.”

“And I say no,” John mocked. “Come on, Macca! I’ve got work to do!”

“And who are you?!” Paul exclaimed in a playful manner. “What have you done to my lovely Johnny? I know my darling, he’d never said that! You crook!”

John grinned and straightened his back.

“Get yer juicy arse here in twenty minutes, McCartney!”

“That’s better,” Paul chuckled and hung up. 

***

“Yer not wasting yer time,” was the first thing Paul said when the front door to John’s flat had been opened and John greeted him in a state of nature. He was wearing his horn-rimmed glasses, though.

“Waste not, want not, sweetheart,” John let Paul in and closed the door behind him. When he turned back to face his lover, Paul had already disappeared; however, John knew exactly where to search for him.

In the bedroom Paul was rapidly tearing his clothes off, hopping comically at one foot as he was getting rid of his jeans, with his shirt already unbuttoned. When he’d done undressing, he leaped onto the bed and splayed out in front of John, leaving no doubt who’d be on top this time.

“Yer gonna be my death, Macca,” John said, as he was ogling his lover, his porcelain skin and narrow hips, his dark hair and long legs; and then he climbed on the bed, crawling on all fours over Paul’s soft body. Paul gave a small chuckle and locked his legs around John’s waist, pulling him into a tight hug.

A loud groan escaped from Paul’s throat as John sucked at his neck. Paul closed his eyes and grabbed John’s nape with his palm, pressing his head closer to his collarbone. John smirked around Paul’s skin and sucked him harder, making sure to leave a love bite on his neck.

Paul buckled his hips, urging his lover to hurry up.

“Alright, alright,” John drawled and unclenched Paul’s legs around his torso. Paul emitted a moan full of disapproval but the sound of it died soon as John kissed him on the lips before he pulled back to cover his body with a tail of wet and sloppy kisses. Paul twitched as he felt John’s tongue circling around his navel, he grasped John’s hair to drag him away from his belly where the skin was too sensitive to bear this sweet torture. With a roguish smirk on the face, John plunged his tongue inside Paul’s belly button, wetting him there. Not long his lips moved lower and placed a kiss below Paul’s abdomen, making his lover squirm at the sensation.

“What d’ya want, luv?” John asked in a husky voice, his lips itches away from Paul’s unyielding erection. “Wanna me to blow you?”

“Yeah,” Paul breathed out, staring at John through half-lidded eyes. “Please, Johnny, give me head.”

“As you wish, babe,” John winked and took his lover’s member into his mouth.

Paul was panting loudly as John was pleasuring him with his jaunty tongue and hot mouth. His eyes were closed and his head was thrown back on the pillow, though at some point he’d half-open his eyes and raise his head a little just to see John worshipping his dick that was just too alluring not to gaze. The way John wrapped his lips around Paul’s shaft, the way he winked at Paul every now and again, staring directly into his eyes while sucking on the tip of his head… Paul squeezed the sheets with his fingers and arched his back when John gave him a deep and hard suck, holding his hips tightly. Half-mutedly, John chuckled around Paul’s dick as he heard his lover burst in swear when he pushed two fingers into his own mouth, coating them with saliva as he licked along Paul’s cock.   

“Yeaaaah…” Paul moaned when he felt a finger rimming his opening, tempting Paul with excruciating slowness. He gasped when John entered him with his finger, stretching him carefully.

“Fuck!” John cursed and removed his fingers.

“What’s the matter?” Paul’s eyes shot open, his brows knitted.  

“I just remembered I don’t have a condom. Can I—”

“I have. Go check my purse.”

“Okay,” John pecked Paul on his lips and climbed off of him.

He swiftly found Paul’s purse and when he looked inside it, his lips spread into a wide grin: he spotted a photo strip from the photobooth he had taken with Paul some time ago. John glanced at the snapshots from the first to the last – his arm around Paul’s shoulders, their cheeks touched side by side; John’s other hand placed on Paul’s cheekbone, the two of them still looking at the camera; John’s lips against Paul’s cheek, a big smile on Paul’s face, his eyes looking forward; and finally, their lips connected in a loving kiss – John basked in the memories and carefully put the photo strip back in its rightful place.

 _So fucking cute_ , John decided as he ripped open a small pack and rolled a condom along the length of his dick.

Quickly, he covered Paul with his body and placed Paul’s legs over his shoulders.

“You ready?” John cooed, brushing Paul’s fringe from his eyes.

Paul nodded and closed his eyes, rejoicing in the sensation of being taken by his lover…

***

An hour or two later, John carefully uncurled Paul’s hands around his torso and slowly slipped from the bed. He didn’t want to get Paul up, even though the latter had asked to wake him in case he fell asleep. _Just for a few minutes, Johnny, I’ll close my eyes and—_ and he dossed off. That was funny how some specific sexual actives could affect Paul in so many ways.

 _Yeah, right,_ John smirked in his thoughts, _was it the blowjob that lull Paul to sleep or—Fuck! Coffee’s cold._   He poured his too-late-to-drink beverage into the sink and made a new cup.

As the coffee was brewing, John collected Paul’s clothes and put them on the back of the half-empty chair before he came back to the kitchen.

 _“I love coffee, I love tea, I love the java jive and it loves me. Coffee and tea and the jiving and me. A cup, a cup, a cup, a cup, a cup!”_ John sang under his breath, as he filled the cup to the brim. Slowly, like a ninety-year-old grandma who’d participate in egg and spoon race, he made his way back to the computer, placed the cup on the coaster, and moved the mouse to wake up the computer from sleep mode.

It was early in the morning when John typed the last full stop and his article _‘The most overcrowded places in Liverpool you should never visit’_ was ready to be published.

God, John hated being in the places with too many people. No privacy, really. And wherever he went out with Paul, there always would be _every single person_ gazing at his significant other as if he was a world-famous rock-star or something. _(Mona Lisa, for example, o_ _r not – the_ _boy with a basket of fruit, that’s it, that suits him better.)_ Well, surely, he was aware of the fact that Paul was the sexiest man alive and he, John, should be proud that Paul had actually chosen him as his ( _permanent!_ ) partner of all the people, and yet he couldn’t help being a jealous and hasty boyfriend.

John sat on the edge of the bed and gazed lovingly at Paul; he looked so adorable in his sleep. And it almost broke his heart to have to wake him up.

For a brief second, John caught himself on the thought that he’d love just to sit and stare at his lover all day long as if he’d turned, out of sudden, into an old poofter whose golden days were long gone and the only thing he still was good at was watching other people doing stuff and drooling himself.

“Paulie,” John cooed, stroking Paul’s hair. “You’ve got to wake up, baby. It’s half past eight already.”

“Mmm?” Paul slowly opened his hazel eyes. His glance wandered towards the window: the sunlight was trying to permit through the curtains into the room and the noisy street was remaining of itself with the occasional hums of the cars’ engines running on and too voluble passers-by coming and going on and off. Paul cursed and sprang to his feet, nearly falling down the floor as the cotton sheet got in his way around his ankle.

“Easy, boy! Yer clothes are on that chair,” John gestured with his chin. “Paul, on the other ch—“

“Fuck! Why didn’t you wake me up yesterday as I asked you to? Fuck! I can’t be late.” He grabbed the clothes and darted into the bathroom. The sound of running water could be heard within the next couples of seconds along with some other scuffling noise that came through the closed door.

Whilst Paul was performing his morning ablutions, John headed to the kitchen to do everything to avoid his boyfriend run off with an empty stomach, namely: he was making him a sandwich.

“I’m off, luv,” Paul said hurriedly, his head peeked into the kitchen and quickly disappeared as Paul kneeled down and started to put his shoes on.

“Wait,” John followed after him. “I made you a sarnie, ‘ere.”

Paul stood up, with a wide smile on his face. Had he ever had such a caring girlfriend? _I’m not your wife, and even if I were, that doesn’t mean I’d prepare you nosh! —_  a vivid recollection flashed in his mind, bringing back an annoyed countenance of his one-week-long ex-girlfriend whom he had so audaciously asked to put on a kettle and get ( _them!_ ) something to chew.  

“Thanks, luv.” Paul pecked John on his lips, got the sandwich, took a big bite of it, and left John’s flat.


	3. In which kith and kin remind of themselves

More often than not, John wondered what thing Paul loved more in his life: his boyfriend or his job. It seemed like there wasn’t a single day when Paul would be late for his work or would get back home a little bit earlier. It had never ceased to amaze John how responsible Paul was, but, at the same time, he was confused what exactly Paul’s obligations included as his post was known as a Recording Arts Support Assistant at Parr Street Studios.

Apparently, Paul was born under a very lucky star, otherwise how it would've even been possible for a lad who, at that time, had just graduated from Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts and at once got a job at the number one, as it seemed to John, recording studio in the entire city? It was unfair that Paul had never even tried to get that job, and the job had itself knocked on his door, calling at the top of its voice: _‘I’m yours! Take me!’._

_(or maybe Paul was just a talented student and got noticed by his tutor who had been associated with the mentioned studio)_

John took his smartphone and lay down on the bed. Leisurely, he texted back to his overnight messages. As he was typing replies, John received one more message that made him specifically cheerful. The message from his old university friend, who, while still being a student had taken a one-year study abroad programme to Germany and never returned to his alma mater, and, consequently, to England too.

John genuinely missed his partner in crime, and Stu’s name, displayed on the screen, brought back a slight twinge of nostalgia for the stunts they used to pull together. 

_‘What’s up, mate? Call me when you can.’_

With a wide grin, John dialled Stu’s number and turned on the speakerphone. A couple of monotonous, resonant beeps ensued, then Stu answered the call.

“I'm surprised you're up so early. You're not ill, are you, John?”

John smirked. Since Stu’s departure, they didn’t keep in contact very often, limiting their communication to random phone calls and happy-something wishes in a text form. So, to stay away from awkward greetings and tiresome questions, they came to a tacit agreement not to greet with each other at all but carry on speaking like the last time they had met was a week or so ago.

“Nah, I’m perfectly fine. Even great, in fact.”

“Glad to here.”

“Ta, mate.” John said and turned on his stomach.” So, how’s life treating you?”

“Life’s good. And gonna get even better soon.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Astrid and I have settled a date. We’re finally getting married.”

“Oh! Congrats, mate! Kiss her for me.”

“Sure. So… do you want to be my best man?”

“Me?! Well, yes all right… that’s, well, that’s unexpected. Are you getting married in Liverpool?”

“In Hamburg, actually. Astrid’s family’s all here and most of our friends too. So yeah, we settled on Hamburg.”

“Okay, I see. Look, Stu…” John rolled on his back. “I’m a bit short at the moment and—”

“Don’t worry about the present. A simple card will do just fine. And about your staying... We’ll make something up.”

Unconsciously, John drummed his fingers on the phone but he stopped as quickly as he realized what was he doing; he hoped Stu hadn’t heard it. 

“Okay then,” John replied after a while, “but just make sure I’m not spending a wedding night with you in the same room. I think Astrid won’t be very pleased to have a witness of your… er… consummation.”

Stu laughed, “That’s a deal then?”

“That’s a deal.”

“Great. Oh, and one more thing. Will ya bring a plus one?”

“I might…” John said, looking at the ceiling, “I need to ask Paul first.”

“Paul?” Stu sounded perplexed. “You two still dating?”

“Well yes! What’s so weird ‘bout it?”

“Nothing. I just… whoa. It’s been, what? Half a year?”

“Seven months,” John said proudly.

“Whoa. That’s impressive.” Stu paused, then added. “It’s serious, I take it?” 

“It is, Stu, very serious. I love him.”

“I’m very glad for you, John. Really. I hope you made the right choice, mate.”

“Yeah, me too, mate. Or else you’ll have to wipe my tears.”

“Or I just can ask Astrid to throw her bouquet right at Paul. What’d you say? Or better, to shove it into his hands, saying ‘you’, ‘John’, ‘marriage.’ How’s that?”

John roared with laughter, “’m afraid, I’m not dating a caveman, Stewie. Paul actually understands long sentences. And speaks ‘em too.”

“I know, but a broad hint wouldn’t hurt him though. Okay, mate, we’ll keep in touch, yeah?”

“Sure,” John said and hung up.

***

In the evening of the same day, when Paul came back home, all lights in his flat had been turned on, and a clinging sound could be heard from the kitchen. Cautiously, Paul headed towards the sound, having two assumptions who could it be: a secret maniac-admirer, brandishing a knife, or his adorned little brother Mike. Paul wished it was a maniac.

Paul stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. There was a big, opened box of pizza on the table and one-litre bottle of Coca-Cola. Mike’s back was facing Paul as he was taking a glass from the cupboard. Then Mike turned around and saw Paul, whom he’d heard opening the front door a couple of minutes ago.

“Hey, bro! You hungry? I’ve ordered a pizza, go ahead, take a slice!” Mike said and took a big gulp of his drink.

“Hi, Mike. Pour me some coke too, please.” Paul sat at the table. “Anyroad, what are ye doin’ here? I thought you didn’t live with me anymore.”

“Don’t worry, big brother, I dropped in to collect the rest of me stuff an’ return ye a key.” Mike took another glass, filled it and put it on the table before Paul, and sat down.

“Oh… You’re quick.”

“Yeah, the place’s all yours. From now on, ye can walk ‘round naked as much as you like. John, too.”

“Amazing,” Paul rolled his eyes. He slipped his drink. “He’d love it.”

“I bet,” Mike chuckled and took a slice of pizza. “Don’t ye wanna live with ‘im?”

“Don’t speak with a full mouth, Mikey.” Paul said, putting his elbows on the table and placing his chin on his fists. “I dunno. You think I should give it a try?”

“Is there something bothering ye? Aren’t ye one hundred percent sure ‘bout ‘im or what?”

“No! Nothing like that. I feel like John’s my soulmate or something. I just, well, I’m not sure about myself, though.”

“Ye kiddin’ me, right? What’s that s’posse to mean?”

“The routine kills passion, little brother. Home-work-home, cleaning, cooking, washing… I don’t wanna get John bored of me, y’know. I love him, but his place’s utter mess.  I mean, if I see his socks lying around _somewhere they shouldn’t_ , I’ll go berserk and ready to kill, y’know. John’s not prepared for that.”

“Rubbish. If he hasn’t gone crazy yet, putting up with these, er, weird things of yours, then he’ll be fine… with the rest of yer whims.”

“Thank you, Mike. You’re wonderful.” Paul said in a taunting manner. “Always know how to cheer up yer older brother, don’t you?”

“Please, Paul, don't thank me. Thank John.” Mike retorted and they both burst into laughter.

Within a couple of seconds, Paul’s iPhone vibrated in the front pocket of his jeans.

“Speaking of John,” Paul gave Mike a gesture to be quiet. “Yes, luv?”

Mike rolled his eyes and Paul shushed him, “No, Johnny, not you. My annoying brother’s dropped by. Mm? Yeah, I know. Yeah. Who?... Stu?” Paul gave his brother a strange look. “You mean, Stu Sutcliff? Oh, good for him. Really? Yeah, of course, I’d love to. When do you say? Uh-huh. In Germany?” he raised his eyebrows and Mike tilted his head, curious. “Well, okay. It’d be a nice weekend, I guess. Yeah, tell him. Right, bye, Johnny.” Paul hung up and looked at Mike.

“So?”

“John’s mate’s getting married. He asked John to be his best man, and John asked me to be his plus one.”

“Oh. D’you know him? This Stu bloke?”

“Personally, no. Though, John told me a lot about him. They used to be really close during their uni’s days.

“Ooooh! Aren’t ye jealous?” Mike sniggered.

“What? Course, no. To a lad who’s getting married? I mean, come on!”

“I don’t believe you, big brother.” Mike winked and finished the last slice of pizza.

*******

A few hours later, when Mike had gone, Paul was lounging on the sofa with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as he was meditating upon his relationship with John. Inadvertently or not, Paul had spent all day in John’s clothes, and something rather odd had happened to him. Again, maybe it was just his imaginative faculty, but wearing all day long John’s togs gave him a feeling of security, enveloping his mind and body with a sense of John being near him in an impalpable form. Odd.

However, how sappy it might sound, but the mere thought of John’s _(grimacing or laughing or even mocking)_ face made Paul feel good. So, wouldn’t it be really good to have John around him any time at home? Having him at breakfast, having him in the middle of the night, having his lazy arse vegging out on this very sofa in front of the TV… well, maybe the last thought wasn’t so alluring after all.

Thank god it wasn’t an urgent decision to make, and Paul still had ample time to mull over it thoughtfully. But first, there was something else he wanted to settle.

Paul chuckled aloud and grabbed his smartphone to tap John a goodnight message.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now. See you on Monday :)


	4. In which John is a hermit and Paul is a people person

There was one thing Paul didn’t know about John. Something that the latter used to do while being all alone in his room, at the end of the day, amusing himself, with the sounds like _‘yeah, yeah, yeah!’_ coming from his monitor screen. Something that John was for some reason a little bit shy to come clean about his self-practice sessions… Something that he was too old _(24 years!)_ to work at, something that was meant only for swaggering teens. For months John had been learning how to play the guitar.

It was his juvenile, unfulfilled dream to become a musician, which had never progressed from the stage of being just an amateur player who could strum same basic chords, impressing and seducing girls; however, he’d soon found that there were easier ways to get his hand under their skirts such as his wits and antics. But it wasn’t the only reason why he’d stopped playing, no -- he’d just never met somebody who’d have been as zealot as him. There wasn’t such a person, and so, at one point, John just dropped the idea of pursuing his passion. It’d always been important to him to have a kindred spirit in his every beginning, someone who’d share all joys and hardships of learning something new. John wasn’t an assiduous person, and so he needed to be encouraged a lot not to nip it in the bud. The lads whom he’d met and asked to join his school band… they just couldn’t understand him; Paul did. John was just short of motivation and, in the general run of things, a light reproaching could do magic for him. 

A gentle reprimanding to play his heart out, so to say.

_“Erm, Paul?” John had asked his four months ago, watching Paul lounge on the sheets, all naked and sweaty. “Can I ask you something, um, something that you might find a little bit… cranky?”_

_Paul shot him a curious look. They’d only been messing about on the bed together five minutes ago, and now John had been sitting on his armchair with wheels, waiting for his Windows to load._

_“Er, you see, I have this editing that I had to finish some time ago and…”_

_Paul lifted an eyebrow._

_“Er, right. So, my request is...” John swallowed and quietly added, being too awkward to look Paul into his eyes, “Paul, can you please nag me a bit?”_

_“What?!” Paul exclaimed so sudden, he had nearly chocked at his own reaction. “You want me to… nag you?”_

_John slowly nodded. “Well… you got it! Erm… just tell me what a lazy layabout I am. That I’m an arse and, you know,_ _” he waved his hand,_ _“stuff like that.” John paused, glancing at Paul. “So… what d’you say?”_

_Paul was silent. His eyes were big and he all looked stunned. Then a cocky smile touched his lips._

_“You’re an arse, John. Now, what’re you waiting for? Chop-chop and knuckle down, will you? The editing won’t edit itself.”_

John smiled at the memory. Paul wasn’t the first whom he’d asked to badger him, but he was the first who took his request lightly and without any second thought that it was, in fact, a rather uncommon request, unlike John’s previous boyfriend Jesse, who’d carefully asked him if John had a childhood trauma and maybe needed to visit a specialist. John then had managed to laugh it off, making excuses that he was just joking and wasn’t serious, though it seemed that Jesse hadn’t really believed him. 

But getting back to John’s composing process, he wished he could’ve told Paul that he needed his help to hone his skills, but at the same time he didn’t want to bother Paul with it. Paul was a true virtuoso, for muse’s sake, and making music was his job. John _decisively_ didn’t want to get his boyfriend’s knickers in a twist, come hell or high water, asking him to teach such a tyro. No, he’d approach Paul differently; he’d come up to him with a finished, self-written song.

 ***

It was around three o’clock when Paul had his first break at work.

He let himself collapsed on the sofa while checking his phone for the notifications that, as usual, were from John. Paul texted him back, sending a _‘still at work’_ sticker before he tapped on an application that he’d downloaded only on request _(read: explicit threat)_ by his good old friend George, who’d travelled to India one month ago, and who knows when he’d come back. George hadn’t posted yet new photos, apparently due to the lack of Wi-Fi there, on the Markha Valley Trek, a real Buddhist Kingdom – as George had put it under his last photo, including where he’d be missing for the next five days.

Paul couldn’t help but smile looking once again at the selfie of grinning George in front of Taj Mahal. It was rare to see George smiling from ear to ear like this, who was in the general run of things gloomy, but in a nice way that was quite paradoxical.

Paul hummed something under his nose and put his smartphone back into his pocket.

***

John had been composing for the better half of a day. He’d rewritten the lyrics and played the tune so many times, he wasn’t sure anymore whether it was any good or rubbish to the core. It was like with a word that you repeat it so many times in a row it starts sounding weird until it loses its meaning altogether. The same oddity applied to John’s song; he had to stop before he’d overdo it.

Feeling unsatisfied, John laid the guitar away.

The song was finished, whether he liked it or not.

***

“Holy guacamole, why does it take more time to write a frigging single than a whole frigging album?” Ringo Starr lamented over adversity of a musician’s life.

“Shush it. It’s almost done,” Paul assured him, “unless you want to make a few adjustments… do you?”

“God no. It’s good as it is, I guess.”

“It’s good,” Paul nodded, catching a questioning look from Ringo. For a moment he looked like a wondering child over the question why the sky is blue. He was older than Paul but looked younger, especially now as he was dressed in a red hoodie, loose-fit jeans and a black baseball cap which he wore backward. “The song’s good,” Paul clarified, giving him a small smile. 

Ringo stayed quiet for a while, staring at Paul intently.

“Paul?” he said. “Can I ask ye a blunt question?”

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead.” Paul replied lightly, though he always felt alert at such requests.

“Do you reckon Jeff is a lame rhythm-player?”

Paul stiffed a chuckle. Jeff was a session musician in Ringo’s _All-Starr-Key_ band, a progressive hip-hop group, the music keeping abreast with the times. Though to Paul’s humble opinion, Ringo could’ve done better than his, being a part of a mainstream genre. Paul keenly believed that rock wasn’t dead, it just the young musicians were too unconfident in their own abilities to compose real music. 

“Well, Jeff's okay,” Paul lied. Jeff was a terrible musician, though a good friend of Ringo.

“Paul,” Ringo drawled in a chiding tone. “For once, stop being such a nice guy.”

“Jeff’s not bad,” Paul tried again. He didn’t want to hurt Ringo’s feelings.

Ringo crossed his hands, “Paul.”

“What? He’s okay, just needs some more practice, that’s it.”

“I see,” Ringo shook his head. “Jeff’s terrible, right?”

Paul didn’t answer but maintained his composure.

“Look, Paul…” Ringo said sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “Don’t you want to join the band? You’re a cracker of a guitarist, everybody knows that.”

“Ta, Rings, but you know,” Paul smiled, shrugging his shoulders, “rock ‘n’ roll’s for me.”

“Aye, out of style, I’m afraid.” 

“I don’t think so, mate. Rock never dies and never goes out of style. Oldie but goodie, as John would say.”

“John who?” Ringo didn’t get him. After all, there were so many _Johns_ around…

“My John,” Paul pointed out, for some reason feeling contended. “John Lennon.”

A questioning look was still present in Ringo’s face. Apparently, Paul had never introduced them to each other, or it was Starkey who simply forgot.

“He’s my lover, Richy,” Paul explained in a calm voice. “Don’t you know each other?”

“Well, um, yeah,” Ringo said, slightly blushing. “Yeah. Though it was kinda rapid, y’know. I didn’t ask his surname… y’know.”

“Oh, right.” Paul blunted out. Was it him or it was getting a little bit awkward? “Well, now you know.”

“Right,” Ringo gave a small, timid smile. “Back to the track, shall we?”

***

With a crunch, John ripped-open a bag of bacon-flavoured chips. He’d put on some pounds lately, though Paul never mentioned _(noticed?)_ it. Paul was just too good for him, John thought, and why Paul still hadn’t ditched him was a mystery to John. A sinking feeling had been torturing his mind for the last few day, coming to him when he was left alone, that something unforeseen, something out-of-way was lurking beneath the surface of his and Paul’s fixed relationship, something that would get them to a new stage of affinity or would break them apart. He’d always been evincing his self-doubtless under the veil of unlimited affection, but in some way it wasn’t right. He had to stop being so protective, he shouldn’t call Paul so often, he must abate his insecurity towards his own worthiness.  

But it was too painful to think about it, about a possibility of losing Paul over something that could’ve been prevented.

Sitting in front of the computer, John was forcing himself to work, but his thoughts were just too heavy to sweep them off so easily.   

***

The end of the recording of the latest All-Starr-Key single was celebrated with thunderous applause and loud whistles as Ringo broke into a lively dance. He was cheered by his band members who exhorted him to show ‘em what he was made of. Taking the challenge, Ringo wildly gyrated his hips, imitating the movement of one famous rock ‘n’ roll star.

Paul burst into laughter and applauded heartily. He approached Ringo, holding an imaginary microphone in his hand.

“Mr Starkey,” Paul said, half-laughing, half-seriously, “have you ever considered a possibility of resigning from a music career to become a dancer?”

“To tell the truth, Mr McCartney,” Ringo said in a faux posh accent, never stopping his swaying movements. “It sounds really tempting indeed, but I don’t think I’m ready to make a pass at dancing as well, you know. I don’t swing both ways, you see.” Ringo teased and moved energetically to and fro, emphasizing his words in action, as it were, and a blast of laughter filled the room.

“From what I see,” Paul continued in a diplomatic fashion, trying hard to stifle his laughter in order to play along with the joshing game, “you’re swinging both ways quite well, actually.”

“Hush about it, mister. It’s a secret.” Somebody gave a loud whistle and Ringo twirled on his feet to the sound who’d made it. He pointed his index finger at Jeff, who still had the fingers in his mouth.

The work was done and they all were having a good time, loosening up, joking and lolling about.

“Why don’t we take it to a pub or something?” asked Ringo after some time. His proposition was supported unanimously by all band members. “Paul? Are you with us, son?”

“Well,” Paul smiled. “Can’t really pass it up, can I?”  


	5. In which Paul doesn’t let John sleep at night

It was after midnight when John received a phone call from his plastered boyfriend, who couldn’t stop blabbering about how much he loved and respected his Johnny. 

“I know, I know, luv,” John would repeat over and over again. “Can you please tell me where _exactly_ you are? Yeah, I get it that you’re at the pub, but what’s the address?”

It wasn’t an easy task to get a coherent answer from Paul in such a state. It was hard, but he managed. Good thing John hadn’t been sleeping when the phone rang, so it didn’t take much time to dress up and call a taxi, a luxury that John couldn’t really afford if it wasn’t a question of life and death. John would never forgive himself if he left Paul sozzled like this somewhere in the middle of the city.

When the car reached its destination, John asked the driver to wait for his return with one more passenger. The driver said no problem.

In the pub, John quickly spotted Paul in the company of five noisy men, as wasted as him. One of them looked quite familiar though John couldn’t connect the dots where he’d seen him before. John came towards the table and put his hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“Guess who’s here,” he said, suddenly feeling irritated. Why hadn’t Paul invited him to join the binge?

“Johnny!” Paul bent his head backward, grinning widely. “How you found me?” he asked sincerely, batting his lashes. To John’s keen ears, though, it sounded like _‘au y’fond mee’_ but he managed to understand it.  

“Wait,” a familiar looking lad cut in. “Are ye John Lennon?”

“Yeah,” John said as he put his other hand on Paul’s another shoulder. “Do we know each other?”

“Johnny! Don’t you recognize Ringo Starr from All-Starr-Key?” Paul asked with big eyes.

John looked down at Paul, then back at Ringo. This time he didn’t quite figure it out what Paul had just jabbered. “Oh, haven’t we met at the studio?” he asked the lad.

“Bingo!”

“Ringo!” exclaimed a blond-haired lad, making the other musicians roar with laughter.    

“Right,” John said, being the only one who remained his composure. “You lads celebrating something or just making a drunkard of my boyfriend?”

“We’re celebrating the end of the working over our newest single,” said Ringo. John noticed that he was the least rolling drunk among the others at the table.  

“Cheers, lads,” John said. “It’s great, really. Your work’s done and so is Paul, so we’d better get going. Come on, Paulie, let’s take you home.”

To John’s surprise, Paul stood up at once without a word of complaint. Paul reached for his unfinished glass of whiskey and coke when John grabbed his wrist, took the glass and knocked it back in one gulp. John wiped his mouth on the back. Paul sent him a lop-sided grin.

“Let’s go, luv,” he said, clasping his hand around Paul’s waist before he glanced at Ringo and his mates. “Ta-ta, fellas, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Outside of the pub, the brisk spring wind ruffled John and Paul’s hair as they walked along the street towards the taxi that supposedly had been still waiting for them. Paul’s step was heavy, plodding and staggering and nearly falling every now and then. He would’ve totally kissed the pavement if it hadn’t been for John’s strong arm holding him firmly.

The taxi-man kept his word and didn’t drive away, as he was totally absorbed in his crossword magazine.

“Hi, I’m back,” John said. “Thanks for waiting, man.”

The driver just nodded, writing down the key word _(three letters, second ‘o’)_ for the actor _something_ Hanks. Reluctantly, he put the magazine in the glove box, having a transient thought that the passenger with an aquiline nose reminded some peculiar character from his favourite movie with the aforementioned actor.

John opened the door for Paul and helped him get into the car. Paul put his head on John’s shoulder and dozed off during the entire trip. The night streets of Liverpool, lit with lampposts and cantaloupe lights, flashed through the window as the car veered its way along the half-empty roads. The sparkles of lights grazed warmly Paul’s face, glimmering every now and then in passing. At some point of time, John couldn’t resist but lowered his head and kissed Paul on his temple.

“Paulie, wake up,” John said gently. “We’re here.”

“John,” Paul murmured, smiling foolishly at his lover. “I love you so-so much, my Johnny… you’ve no idea…”

“Yeah-yeah, love you too. Come on, Macca, get out of the car.”  

It was useless trying to persuade Paul verbally to do anything now, and so John had to drag Paul out from the back seat of the taxi. When they tottered to the flat, John started removing Paul’s clothes right at the front door, taking off Paul’s shoes, releasing him from his whiskey-soaked jacket. Then John steered him into his bedroom and put him into bed, undressing him from the last items of clothes down to his t-shirt and underwear. John covered him with a blanket and undressed himself too, before putting on his pyjamas.

John was slipping under the covers when Paul began to stir.

“Johnny…” Paul muttered as he was lying on his back.

“Mm?” John asked, scrutinizing Paul’s face.

“Johnny,” Paul said again, smiling dreamily. 

“What?!”

Paul grinned widely, “Let’s fuck.”

_Unbelievable_ , John thought, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll fuck tomorrow when you’re sober,” he said. “Go to sleep, Macca.”

“But I want you so much…” Paul pouted and placed his palm on John’s groin, squeezing his shaft through the thin, cotton fabric of his pyjama trousers.

John gave a small, quiet laugh. He took Paul’s hand away.

“You’re too drunk. You’ll sleep on me in the process.”

“Noooo…” Paul protested and tried to grasp John’s member again, but this time sneaking his hand inside the hem of John’s pants. John sighed, and rolled Paul in one swift movement, getting Paul on top of his body.

“Alright, Macca, do yer deed, you wanker.”

Paul grinned triumphantly and started kissing John sloppily on his neck. Fumingly, he tried to tug John’s y-fronts down his legs but his efforts were to no avail as his fingers were just too clumsy to make use of them. John chuckled, wondering how much time it’d take for Paul to finally give up his flimsy attempts to undress him. Quite soon Paul conceded defeat and clasped his fingers around John’s upper hands, his hips moving unsteadily against John’s midsection.  

John was amazed at how stiff Paul actually was, taking into account his dead-drunk condition. John, on the other hand, was only half-hard thanks to Paul’s restless humping against him. John’s hands were wrapped around Paul’s back and his eyes were closed. John didn’t want to get an erection that would require a jerking off session, being just too tired to please himself, but the naughty thought of Paul wetting his pants was turning John on more than Paul’s messy rubbing. By now John’s neck was soggy with Paul’s saliva when Paul suddenly stilled and groaned meekly. He collapsed on John’s chest and was fast asleep.

“So much for cuddling,” John mumbled, deciding he didn’t want to move, enjoying the weight of Paul’s soft body atop of him. 


	6. In which John takes care of Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention: lots of, lots of, (lots of!) fluff.

His headache felt like a tight, scorching band around his head. He was extremely thirsty and his mouth was so dry it was painful to swallow, let alone to speak. Paul felt sick to the stomach and he could’ve sworn that his face had turned green over the night. 

Slowly, he opened his heavy-leaden eyelids. He was alone in the bed, and John was nowhere to be seen. Paul was about to frown when he’d noticed something on the bedside table that made him smile a little, and is he did so, a thump of a headache hammered him on the top of his head. Paul whined in dull pain.

There was a glass of water and two pills of aspirin on the bedside table. Paul reached for them and drained the glass to the bottom, the pills scratched unpleasantly his dehydrated throat. There also was a note _(_ _Went to the store_ _, love you)_ from John with a funny sketch of a cat wearing sunglasses. Paul laid back his head on the pillow and closed his eyes, getting back to his beauty sleep.

Paul didn’t hear John coming back, the front door being open with a jiggling sound. He’d fallen asleep for another two hours and was awakened by John’s half-muted steps as he’d walked into the bedroom to check on Paul’s wellbeing.

Paul half-opened his eyes, smiling placidly.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s alright,” Paul mumbled. “My back’s aching from lying in bed for so long, anyway.”

“Only back?” John smirked, bracing his hand against the doorframe.

“Argh. Don’t you mention it.”

It was quiet for a moment.  

“Shall I bring you two more pills?” John then inquired. “Something to drink?”

“Nah,” Paul said as he propped himself against the pillow. “I wouldn’t mind a big glass of water, though.”

“Copy that,” John smiled and retired into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. His return made Paul instantly astonished.

“Whoa,” Paul exclaimed, smiling at what he was seeing: John holding a tray with one glass of water and another with orange juice, a bowl of yogurt with oatmeal biscuits and a platter of sliced fruits. “Is this all for me?”

“For the monster under bed,” John said as he carefully put the tray onto Paul’s knees.

“I see. I should’ve figured that,” Paul smiled from ear to ear. “You’re amazing, Johnny. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John smiled too. He gently ruffled Paul’s uncombed hair, making the latter wrinkle his nose as a strand or two fell over his eyes. John laughed quietly and tucked Paul’s loose bunch of hair behind his ear. “Eat some fruits, luv. You’ll feel better.”

Paul smiled even more broadly. He wide-opened his arms, inviting John for a hug. Gladly, John clasped his hands around Paul’s chest and relished in the moment.

“I can’t remember anything how come I ended up in your bed,” Paul said when the hug was broken. “And in your place too, for that matter.”

“It’s all my charms, luv. You’re hopeless like a kitten against my seduction techniques.”

“Agreed,” Paul said and shoved a slice of kiwi into his mouth. “What about your place then?”

“You really don’t remember?”

Paul shook his head.

“You called me. Ring a bell?”

“No. The last thing I remember is Ringo asking why don’t we order another bottle of Scotch.”

“Mm. Right.”

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“What?” John sounded astounded. “Why’d I be mad at you?”

Paul didn’t respond. He hoped John would come to the conclusion himself, without having to say that aloud. But John stayed quiet too, his eyebrows lifted.

Paul grabbed a piece of banana and fidgeted it into his fingers before quietly adding, “For not being perfect, I guess.”  

In silence, John stared at Paul. It was breathtaking how defenceless they both could be around each other. If John hadn’t known Paul as close as he had now, he would’ve never believed it that Paul, too, had such thoughts in him, he would’ve never believed it by just seeing Paul’s confident posture from afar.

“If you’re not perfect, so what am I?” John asked, lowering his eyes.

“What?” Paul looked at John, frowning. “You’re brilliant-- fantastic! You—” Paul paused. John stared narrowly at Paul. “You make me very happy,” Paul finished in a whisper.

“You make me very happy too,” John said as quietly as Paul just had, and the exquisite silence of the moment hovered in the air. It felt like a second confession of love, a new height of sentimental trust that can only exist between two people in love. Gazing into each other’s eyes, they shared this mutual, fragile feeling that bonded them together into something that neither of them could understand.

Paul smiled and gently squeezed John’s fingers, not knowing what next should he say; if he had to say anything at all. Instead, he took another slice of banana and touched John’s lips with it. John let out a chuckle and opened his mouth. Grinning, Paul put the fruit on John’s tongue, looking at it as if being mesmerized, his fingers grazing John’s lips in passing.

“So,” John said after a while. “Having any plans for today, are we?”

“Mm,” Paul hummed, smiling. “How about staying in bed and doing absolutely nothing together?”

John laughed. He had no objections to add.

And so, they spent the rest of the day enjoying each other’s company, laying in the bed and finishing breakfast, watching movies and making love, dusking in the afterglow and just being together.

Doing absolutely nothing, really.  


	7. In which both have some news to share

A week went by since Paul’s late night drunken escapade, and John still hadn’t the guts to show Paul the love song he’d written for him. Well, he’d simply been waiting for the perfect moment, John lied to himself, kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing; something that may never occur. And so, John mustered up all the courage that he’d had inside and called Paul over for dinner, feeling like he was inviting him for the very first date.

“A dinner?” Paul had then asked. “Or do you mean a _romantic_ dinner?”

“What difference does it make? Just… a dinner, you know.”

It had mattered, though, owing to the fact Paul, too, had something important to say.

At first, John had an intention to order some Italian or Thai food, but then he settled on cooking a meal all by himself. A simple carbonara with cream was something he could concoct quite decently. Though it wasn’t supposed to be a romantic dinner, it hadn’t stopped John to buy a bottle of dry wine, as well as it hadn’t prevented him from igniting two long, red candles.

The dinner went fine and the meal was good. It was time to share the news.

“Okay, go first,” Paul said, smiling at John across the table.

“No, no, you go first.”

“You.”

“No, you.”

“Okay,” Paul sighed. “Let’s spill it together.”

“Won’t you cheat?”

“Won’t _you?_ ”

“All right,” John said, feeling jumpy. “Let’s go on three then.” John raised his hand and started to count down, unfolding his fingers from a fist in silence. Then the words were spoken at one and the same time:

“I wrote a song for you!”

“I want you to meet my parents!”

They both fell for silent for a moment, perceiving the information.   

John was the first to speak “Y-yer p-parents?” he stuttered. 

“You wrote a song for me? That’s… wow. Will ye show it to me, please?” Paul smiled. “And yes, I want you to introduce you to my mum and dad.”

“But…”

“But what?” Paul knitted his brows. “We’ve been dating for some time now, haven’t we? Don’t you think the time has come?”

“No, well yes! I just…” John ruffled his hair. “I just don’t think yer parents will like me very much.”

“What? How come?”

“Well, for a start, I earn two times less than you. And that’s mean I’m a woman in our relationship. Hey, let me finish! So, it’s only natural for your parents to expect you to bring a pretty sweet lady into their house, not a five feet ten block with an unsteady job.”

“And yet, you can afford to rent a flat and live by yourself.”

“You call it a flat? It's just one big fucking shit-hole!”

“It’s not a shit-hole. And, Johnny, once I’ve dated a woman who earned thrice as much as I did at that time, so what? It’s not a big deal these days.”

“And who broke up with whom?”

“She ditched me.”

“What? How can anybody have you and leave you?”

Paul stiffed a smile. That was one of many things Paul loved the most about John: namely, his spontaneous childish naivety.

“I turned twenty and became too old for her. Her next boytoy was eighteen years old.”

“And she was…”

“She was thirty-two.”

“Don’t tell me you were a kept boy!” John chortled. “Baby, really?”

“Hey! I was nineteen and horny. Besides, she really knew what she was doing." Paul slowly licked his lips in order to tease his lover a little. “Before you say anything, you’re much better than her. Please, luv, don’t be jealous. I’ve never even intended to introduce her to my parents. It’s you I want, darling, all right?”

“You have to convince me better than this, Paulie.”

“I will,” Paul winkled. “But first, you gotta court with me your song, darling.” He finished with a smirk.

“Fine!” John exclaimed and jumped to his feet, walking towards Paul. He held out his hand, helping Paul to stand up. “Let’s move to the sofa, shall we?”

John brought his guitar and sat on the sofa next to Paul.

“It’s called _Oh, Paul!_ ” John said quietly. He could feel his cheeks getting warm.

Paul smiled reassuringly and John smiled back shyly and strummed the strings, warming up his fingers. He kept strumming for some time until he gained his confidence that he wasn’t making any mistakes and the tune was pleasant to hear, resonating soothingly.

He cast a brief glance at Paul and took the first chords, releasing the vibrant, buoyant notes, singing quietly, timidly, making sure his voice wasn’t trembling too much. Insensibly, as he was getting closer to the refrain, John’s voice began to raise with courage, drawling the vowels of Paul’s melodic name. 

John played the finishing chord and laid the guitar away. It was awfully quiet there.

“So?” he asked shyly. “Did you like it?”

“Oh, John… Nobody has ever written a song for me. It’s perfect, luv. Thank you.” Paul smiled and kissed John on his lips. “We should record it.”

“You think so? This song… well, it’s personal. It’s just for you. Why do we need the world to know?”

“Because I want them to know how much we love each other. Why have you never told me you compose music?”

“Dunno,” John shrugged. “I kinda wanted to surprise you.”

“You did,” Paul smiled, noticing the faint red to John’s cheeks. “You’re cute when you blush.”

“Oi, shut up, you” John muttered, blushing more. 

Smiling, Paul covered John’s hand with his own, “Okay then! So, from my amateur point of view, I think you should, as you did just now, play on the acoustic guitar. Ringo from All-Starr-Key can do the drums. And bass for me. There definitely should be piano and, hm, harmonica? Oh, and what do you think about the electric guitar? Or how about the orchestral strings? Yes, that must-- ‘ey, why are ye grinning?”

“Nothing. I just have never seen you like that. All bossy and devoted to music. I’m now really starting to regret I haven’t talked to you about song-writing so much earlier.”

“You should regret, you fool. And I should hit you upside the head right now. You play terrifically, you write lyrics-- and you don't say a word to me. That kind of hurts my feelings a bit. I might be offended, you know.”

“I’m terribly sorry, babe. I just sort of wasn’t ready and… I really wanted to nail the melody myself, you know. Besides, I hoped to finish it before Valentine's, but I wasn’t fully satisfied with it. Well, I’m still not satisfied with it… but, well, if you like it--”

“I love it very much,” Paul smiled broadly. “Now, talking about my parents. Let’s say next Saturday, will it be enough time for you to conquer yer unreasonable trepidation, so to say?”

“Huh?” John blinked a few times, taken aback at the dramatic change of subject. “So soon?”

“That’s plenty of time, luv. Besides, it’s impossible for you to stoop any lower than I did when I first met yer mum. I’m still ashamed of remembering that catastrophic encounter, mind you.”

“Really?” John allowed himself a wry smile. “I thought it went quite nice, actually.”

“You don’t say,” Paul mumbled, and a flamboyant recollection filled his mind.

… Paul turned off the running water in the shower and stepped on the small carpet lying on the tile. His hair was wet and the drops were dribbling down his back and shoulders, but he didn’t use the towel, though John had granted him his own rack and even bought him a toothbrush ( _‘I don’t mind you using mine, y’know, you’re so pedantic it hurts!’)._ With an impish smile on his face, Paul swung the door open to undertook a venture to catch John unawares.

Paul heard John’s voice coming from the kitchen, reckoning that his lover must have been talking to somebody on the phone; never had he guessed, however, that this somebody John was talking to was John’s mother, sitting at the table and drinking tea with her son.

“ _Zap!_ ” Paul howled as he busted in the kitchen, wet and naked; and, before he knew it, he turned scarlet in the twinkling of an eye. At once it had become the most awkward moment of his entire life and, perhaps, John’s too, seeing as his lover slowly lowered his head into his hand, whilst his mother was checking Paul out from head to toe, smiling lopsidedly as her gaze zeroed in on Paul’s midsection.

“I, er… um…” Paul covered his length with his palms, taking a step back right on the wet spot where his foot had left a slippery print; with a thud, Paul fell down on his bum.

“Jeez, Paul!” John exclaimed and sprang to his feet, offering his hand to get Paul back up. “You're not bruised, are you babe?”

Red as a lobster, Paul shook his head, staring at the floor, as he was too ashamed to look into John’s eyes. John squeezed Paul’s hand tightly before he turned his head back and cast a quick glance at his mother, “We’ll be right back, mum. Don’t get lonely, okay?”

With a wink, she gave her son two thumbs-up.

When Paul was out of sight from John’s mother, he dashed back into the bathroom, like a lightning bolt, putting on his clothes. It seemed that he was fully dressed up less than in two minutes, his hair still dripping wet. Sheepishly, he walked into the bedroom, where John had been waiting for him, sitting on the bed. John was smiling naughtily at Paul, and it made Paul feel even more embarassed and guilty. 

“John…” Paul ventured, looking down. “Oh god… I’m so sorry, I had no fucking idea yer mum was there… Please, John… Can I just disappear, please? Without saying her goodbye? I’m so bloody ashamed, God, and—”

John shushed him with a clap on his knees, attracting Paul’s attention to look up at him from under his long eyelashes. “Shut up, luv. Me mum just doesn’t care about such things, okay? Ya don’t have to worry. She’s okay and won’t think any less about ya, I’m tellin’ ye.” John stood up and come close to Paul, putting one hand on his shoulder, “Now, don’t ya reckon the time can’t be any better to properly introduce you to me mum?”

Paul’s jaw dropped. He blinked a few times, digesting John’s words.

“What?” he sounded incredible. 

“Yeah, why not? We’ve been dating for five months now, aren’t you legally me boyfriend at this point, eh?”

“Yeah, but…”

“I told you to relax, luv. Just… act naturally, okay? So far, you’ve done it just fine, babe.”

“Sod off.”

“The time’s ripe, sir!” John laughed and smacked Paul on his arse. “Prepare yer best knickers!”

“No need in that, ‘m afraid,” Paul mumbled. “Yer mum’s already seen me whanger.”

“She’s seen mine too, you know, when I was a wee tot. I guess that gives you two something in common, doesn’t it? Everybody’s seen Johnny’s willy here,” John cackled like a wild gander.

“Er, at some point, but in different conditions. I was, err, sort of willing to see yer, err… and—” Paul paused, feeling enormously awkward. Why had they been discussing it, again? He bit his bottom lip, blushing like a 50s schoolgirl at a biology reproduction class. Amused, John crooked his lips in a mocking smirk. “Can I go home… please?” Paul begged, doe-eyed.

“Nope, me mum’s waiting to get to know ye.” John grinned as he placed his hands on Paul’s shoulders and turned him around to steer him towards the kitchen. “You know, intellectually, not _physically_.” He joked before bursting into hearty laughter.

“Please don't taunt me. I’m already embarrassed to no end.”

John stopped and turned Paul back around. Squinting his eyes, he examined Paul attentively, noticing his furrowed brows and downcast eyes. His sad countenance was heartbreaking, making Paul look like an abandoned kitten to John. He smiled and gently tucked a flyaway strand of Paul’s black hair behind his ear. Paul gave a small, feeble smile and clasped his hands around John. 

“It’s alright, babe.” John whispered, caressing Paul’s back. “Me mum’s alright. She’s wanted to meet you a long time ago.”

“You’ve told yer mum about me?” Paul loosed himself a little from John’s arms to look into his eyes, that were bright and loving.

“’course I have. You’re me dearly-loved boyfriend, Paulie… who’s turned me into a gooey wanker.”

“Weren’t you one, though?” Paul smiled and leaned in for a kiss.

“Well, I’d say I won’t argue over that too much,” John said lightly. “Let’s go, luv. Don’t make a lady waiting.”

Paul smiled and let John led him back to the kitchen, being supported by John’s hand at the small of his back.

“Mum, this is Paul. Paul, this is me mum.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs Lennon...”

“Oh, please! Call me Julia, darling.” She smiled and pulled Paul into a hug. “I’ve heard so much about you! My son has completely lost his head over you!”

“Mum!”

“Shush,” Julia said, gently ruffing Paul’s hair. “Now, I want to know everything about you, my dear. For a start, how you two met?”

“I’ve already told you that.” John said, rolling his eyes. “Like, a zillion times.”

“I know, I know. But I want to hear it from Paul, too. You know, from Paul’s own memories. Some juicy details that you’d deliberately missed and whatnot.”  

_“Mum!”_

Paul smiled. There was no judgment in Julia's voice and she wasn't really disappointed with him, not at all, and Paul liked her immediately. Especially, by making John more red-faced than he was himself a few minutes ago.

***

 _We met at the independent cinema where they played vintage movies. It was a night of non-stop movies with Ingrid Bergman, when you can buy one ticket and sit there all night. I had a date with a girl called Anne who never arrived. I'd been waiting for her for an hour and when I called her she didn’t reply. I’d never heard from her anymore. I was annoyed but for some reason didn’t want to go home, so I went to the hall where were only five persons, including John. As I said, it was the independent cinema so there were just four rows of seats, all big, red armchairs. A couple of teenagers, an old man, a young girl, and… [smiling] and John. He looked like the most bored person on earth. Lounging in his seat, two empty boxes of popcorn under his seat, one of his legs over the other. After, of course, John told me he had to write a review on this cinema as it had been reconstructed a week or so. Where was I? Oh, right. When I walked into the cinema hall, there were ending credits on the screen, and John looked like he was about to doze off. I chose the row where he was sitting, three seats next to him. Funnily enough, but the next movie was none other than Casablanca. I started watching it but after a while I had this feeling of being watched, you know, the feeling when you know that somebody stares at you. At once, I looked at John, knowing it was him. John didn’t avert his eyes. But I did. Then I looked back at him, and John was still gazing. I saw his lips moving as if he was saying something to me. I didn’t hear it, though. So, I gave him a perplexed look, ‘What? I can’t hear you.’ John smiled and suddenly stood up, walking straight to me. He collapsed next to me, still smiling, and then he just outstretched his hand and said, ‘My name’s John.’ Confused, I shook it and said my mine. He said then, ‘So, you come here a lot, Paul?’_ _You can’t even imagine how saucer-eyed I was. John was so... casual, so laid-back. He spoke to me like we were good old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while. I still was a little down over that girl, but John’s behaviour was so funny and amusing... Well. I played along with him. Oh god, we laughed so loud! We cracked jokes throughout the movie. Then we started quoting it. Here's looking at you, kid. [in a deep voice] We'll always have Paris. [desolate and intense] We laughed so hard the old man behind us rebuked us._ _And John hissed at him, how do you like it? But that’s John. [smiling] Well… I nearly died there with laughter. We watched another movie, Gaslight, I remember that right. Then, Spellbound. We left the cinema at half past six, at the sunrise. It was Saturday. The next time we met was that very day in the evening._

***

“… yeah, but me mum’s fun.” John drew Paul away from his recollections.  

“Wait a minute,” Paul said, half-frowned. “Are you suggesting that my parents are Victorian-style bores, like?”

“Well… Like father, like son, you know.”

“Are _you_ calling me a bor—”

John silenced Paul with a kiss. A well-researched diversion of cooling Paul down and keeping off from brawling with Paul over John’s loose tongue. Kissing Paul was a much better use of it, anyway.

“I think,” John said out-of-breath after an aeon of ravishing Paul’s mouth. “God. I think next Saturday suits me just fine. Let's meet your parents." 


	8. In which John is being himself

It was like in a haze, the scariest nightmare coming true.

A dim expectation of meeting Paul’s parents; what would come out of it? Would he still be introduced to them after what had taken place?  

John didn’t remember when or how it’d happened, having no recollection whatsoever. There was nothing but a gloomy memory of Paul’s dispassionate, jaded voice. The kind of voice that any other day John would’ve taken for a sign of outright despondency, that something bad had been bothering Paul terribly, tormenting him; except for this time. Not when the words, rock-solid and steadfast, had crept like a serpent out from Paul’s mouth, stating firmly _‘we have to talk’._

We have to talk. There you have it. Unconditional surrender.

He recognized Paul immediately in some popular café where they’d arranged to meet. John would’ve never mistaken Paul’s shock of raven-black hair, the curve of his lithe back, his nonchalant posture for anybody else in the world.

Tentatively, John forced himself forward whatever the outcome might unfold before him.

“Hey, all right?” John asked, out of his wits. It seemed that Paul hadn’t heard him but noticed a figure hovering above him. He looked up and grinned widely, though it didn’t seem genuine but sloshed and… rubbery.

“Hiya,” Paul said, tittering. “How d’you do?”

John’s face furrowed with creases. He slowly sat down at the table. It wasn’t Paul, John knew that at once. His tone, his expression, his manner of speaking… it was all wrong as if he’d been replaced with a scatter-brained twin, a twisted mirror image of Paul’s actual individuality.

“Why’re ye behaving like this, Paul?” John asked on a verge of tears. “Why’re you doing this?”  

“All in good time, all in goo—” Paul broke off as his voice disappeared in the sudden clamour of jabbering and glass-jingling.  Like a mountain, a hunky man, with square, face and crew-cut hair, was looming over the table, looking at John unfriendly, aloofly.

“Can I help you?” John asked in a cracking voice.

“Riccardo!” Paul exclaimed as he moved over to the left, beckoning the man to sit next to him on the sofa. The man flopped down without uttering a single word and wrapped his brawny hand around Paul’s waist. Immediately, Paul nestled up against the man’s broad chest.

“This is Riccardo,” Paul said dreamily. “He is my _inamorato_ ,” he added, giggling stupidly. “My lovely honey pie.”

“Why?” was all John could ask.

“Oh, he’s very rich,” Paul responded simply. He turned his head, looking at his new lover absentmindedly, dully: “Aren’t you, honey?”

Riccardo’s face was stiff and wooden. He stayed tight-lipped and nodded his head curtly.

Paul was grinning broadly.

“You said money isn't everything,” John said, suddenly feeling weak and weary.

“Oh, I lied. Money can buy my love.”

… John woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath.  

It was just a dream, a nightmare. It was over now.  

Lying on his back, John was breathing deeply, calming himself down. Paul wasn’t breaking up with him, John kept repeating in his mind, and even wasn’t cheating on him with another man or woman. Moreover, John was about to get to know his family and that must have meant something to Paul, too. Something, John hoped, that it meant to him.

John turned his head to stare at the empty pillow next to him. He wished he hadn’t been alone that night. John grabbed his phone and tapped Paul a message.

 

_Paul_

_Call me when u get up_

_Please_

For no particular reason, John’s heart started beating faster. He was about to text another message, saying that it wasn’t important, that he just wanted to hear Paul’s voice, that Paul shouldn’t worry --when his smartphone vibrated and Paul’s photo appeared on the screen.

John answered the call rapidly.

“Paul…” he said, his voice husky with disturbed sleep. 

“Johnny, are you all right?” came a quick, concern and frightened reply. “Baby, what happened?”

Hearing that voice, John felt like he was about to burst into tears.

“Paulie,” he whispered, sniffing his nose. “I didn’t want to wake you…”

“It’s alright, I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Why?” John asked, baffled, and peeped at the screen, “Paulie, it’s four a.m.”

“Just couldn’t fall asleep, I guess.” Pause. “Johnny, please… What happened?”

“I… I can’t tell you. God. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not. You’re very upset, I know. I can hear it in your voice.”

A warm, soothing feeling heated John’s chest: Paul could read him like a book.

“I had a nightmare… it—God. I can’t tell you, you’ll think I’m nuts.”

“I won’t. Was your nightmare… it was about me, wasn’t it?”

Overwhelmed, John breathed out, “Yes.”

“Baby, it was just a bad dream. I’m not leaving you, and I love you very much.”

Was Paul reading his mind now?

“How could you know?” John asked, his voice incredulous.

Paul gave a soft, quiet laugh, “I told you already. I love you, Johnny. That’s how I knew.” 

“I love you too.”

John felt Paul smiling over the phone.

“Will you be all right now?” Paul asked after a second or two.

“Yes.”

“Good. Tomorrow, I mean today, I’ll come over to you, is that okay?”

“Yes. Okay—absolutely,” John blabbered, then grinned. “You can come over here whenever you want,” he finished in a whisper.

“Okay. All right, Johnny.” Paul fell silent. “Good night then, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“They won’t, not anymore,” John said, still smiling. “Good night, love.”

“Sleep tight, Johnny.”

John dropped his head back onto the pillow. Soon he was fast asleep and didn't wake up until the sun was flowing into his window the following morning. 

The question of changing a job was taking on a threatening shape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of angst to spice up the story.
> 
> Come back for more on Monday ;)


	9. In which John meets Paul’s parents

Paul came to John’s flat around ten o’clock in the morning. It seemed like John hadn’t slept much last night, judging by the bags under his eyes, and for a moment Paul wondered if he should’ve spent the previous night together with John to lull him to sleep. Fortunately, there was some good method Paul knew for getting rid of dark circles instantly, wanting John to look as fresh and presentative as he could. He must have repeated umpteen times that everything was going to be super-duper fine, cajoling John to stop being so jumpy. They were just his parents, for Christ’s sake.  

“They won’t bite you,” Paul said, standing on the threshold of his childhood home. “It’s gonna be alright.” He gently squeezed John’s hand. “Now, are you ready to ring?”

“Just one more minute, please,” John pleaded, as he took a deep breath. His heart was beating rapidly inside his chest, and he all was shaky. He wanted so much to make Paul’s parents like him, at least just a little, being on pins and needles since the meeting hour had been forwarding near. The time had come, and there was nowhere to flee, but the jiggers wouldn’t go away.

John looked like a child that was genuinely afraid of the monster under the bed. Something in his behaviour made him look so innocently cute Paul couldn’t resist a smile. Maybe it was the way John had been dressed, wearing a brown jumper above the white shirt and black fit-slim jeans, that really suited him, making him look semi-casual, semi-formal. Or maybe it was his hair, fondly combed and parted to one side. John looked drop-dead gorgeous, and there was nothing to stop Paul from saying that aloud.

“Ta,” John let a small smile that gently touched the corners of his lips. “You look terrific yerself.”

Coyly, Paul made a vague gesture with his hand and smiled. He was dressed as he usually would in a plain shirt and skinny trousers. “I’m ringing the bell, alright, luv?”

John nodded and clasped Paul’s hand tightly that still had been in his.

A jingling sound reached their ears and soon the door was opened by Paul’s mum, who was a slightly plump woman with shoulder-length, raven-black hair. Her face had soft features, having the outlined wrinkles around her hazel eyes. No wonder her son was so pretty. Paul, too, had the same little wrinkles when he smiled broadly.

“Well hello, young men!” Mrs McCartney exclaimed cheerfully. “We’ve been waiting so long to finally meet you! You must be John, right?”

John sheepishly nodded, “Yes, ma’am. I’m John.”

“It’s Mary for you, dear,” she said with a smile and embraced them both. John huffed with surprise, noticing, out of the tail of his eye, Paul smile. They caught each other’s eyes and grinned knowingly. “Now, come inside, boys,” Mary said as she let them go, closing the door behind them. Then she took them to the living room where Paul’s father had been expecting to meet his son’s partner.

The first thing John noticed in Mr McCartney’s appearance was his arched eyebrows and familiar shaped eyes akin to Paul’s, obviously. The man had been losing his hair, which made John unintentionally wonder whether it would happen to Paul when he’d become the same age as his father was now. It wasn’t like he’d love Paul less strongly when his locks would be no longer as luxuriant as they were today. Even in his old age Paul’s father was a lean, neat man.

“Hello, Mr McCartney,” John ventured, making a valiant attempt not to show his state of great trepidation. “My name’s John, nice to meet you.” John made a step forward the elder McCartney and held out his hand toward him.   

“Call me Jim,” he said in a rather good-natured tone, though to John it sounded nothing but intimidating, as it was a stern, do-or-die order. His handshake was firm and vigorous. “You’re the first one whom Paul brought here to introduce to his parents since he’d graduated high school. It should mean something to you.”

“Dad,” Paul gave a half-hearted grumble. He glanced a brief look at his mum who reassured him with a warm smile. After all, she knew Jim better than Paul.

“I know,” John said. “You can’t even imagine how much it does mean to me, Mr-- Jim.”

Jim nodded. He seemed satisfied with John’s answer.

“The dinner is almost ready,” said Mary. “Paul, dear, why don’t you show John your room?”

“Yeah, why not,” Paul shrugged and grabbed John by his wrist. “Let’s go see my room then,” saying that, he tugged John after him, and John willingly complied to be led upstairs into Paul’s room where he’d till he turned eighteen. The room hadn’t much changed since then, giving John a rare chance to have a peep into Paul’s boyhood, a real personification of the character. It was cosy and snug, tinged in warm yellow colours that emanated from the linen, billowy curtains, matching the two small rugs with a cubical pattern on the floor. The wall was plain, except for a few frames with the pictures of nature, which made John surprised: his own childhood room was covered with all sort of posters. On the bed laid a blue, knitted patchwork _(a present from Paul’s grandma?)_ ; John brushed his fingers along the material. 

“It’s very nice,” John said, referring both to the room and the blanket. “So very you.”

“Naturally,” Paul confirmed as he flopped down on the bed, dragging John with him.  He clasped John's hand and they sat like that in silence, both overwhelmed with deep, earnest emotions.

Paul took John’s chin between his fingers, leaning forward, and kissed him on the lips. Caressing his jaw, Paul pulled away a little and stared into John’s eyes, saying quietly, “You didn’t have to be afraid, you see.”

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid,” John said defiantly. “I was frightened to death, my angel. But now I’m just frightened, though.”

“Are they look so scary, love?” Paul chuckled, putting his hands on John’s shoulders.

“What? No. Your mum's a very attractive woman, Paulie dear. She should’ve been a model or something.”

“Mmm,” Paul hummed, smiling. “In that case, why wouldn’t you get downstairs and tell her that yourself, hm? I bet she’d be very pleased, Johnny.”

“Mm. I bet your dad wouldn’t,” John mumbled and Paul laughed.

“Come on, love, let’s go down and find it ourselves, shall we?”

 ***

It went better than John thought it would. Paul’s parents were both pleasant and understanding, supporting their son enormously. There were, of course, some awkward questions on Jim’s part that almost took John down a peg if it wasn’t for Mary’s quick, sympathetic reaction, doing her best to smooth things over and make it easier for John.

“Don’t answer him, dear,” she’d say to John, referring to Jim’s question about how much money he made. “It is not our concern, isn’t it, Jim?”

“It isn’t,” Jim would agree, turning his staring eyes from John to Paul. “If it doesn’t concern Paul, it shouldn’t concern us any further.”

“It shouldn’t concern you at all, dad.” Paul would add and the topic would be over at once, the conversation getting back to the harmless discussions, such as recollections of Paul’s hilarious episodes from his childhood or John’s preferred pastimes.  

The dinner was nearing its end and Mary rose to fetch the dessert when the most uncalled-for question hovered above the table, making John and Paul speechless and shook-up. Though they both had different interpretations of why Jim would ask such a thing. For John it felt like a kind of final test with his answer shaping his future with Paul; and for Paul if felt like receiving his father’s blessing that depended on John’s response.

The ultimate question: how John felt about Paul.

“Do you love my son?” Jim had asked in a demanding tone, watching John intently.

To John’s own disbelief his voice was firm and assertive as he answered without a hitch or a stammer, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” stating it keenly. “I love Paul with all my heart.”

Jim nodded and his eyes became warmer. He was contented to know that Paul had found somebody who was taking good care of him.


	10. In which John and Paul feed little ducks in the park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a filler before the plot goes on.

They went for a walk to the Sefton Park the following morning. John didn’t want to go, opting for staying at home and tormenting Paul and himself for all the stupid things that he’d said or done yesterday. But since it wasn’t Paul’s preferable idea of Sunday entertainments, he coaxed John outside. The weather was warm and fair that day, and there was no reason to stay indoors.

Hand in hand, they strolled around the Boating lake, listening to the birds’ chirp and hearing the cheerful laughter of children running around. It seemed that fresh air was good for John, clearing up his self-doubting thoughts.

“Fancy something to chew?” John asked at some point, nudging Paul lightly. “There’s a kiosk over there.”

“Yeah, let’s go then.”

They quickened their pace and soon were standing inside the boat-shaped building, looking at the glass display counter with many flavoured pastries. There was a peculiar note labelled on the glass, saying do not feed the ducks bread, but ask the seller for the bird-friendly snacks.   

The seller, a young-looking girl, saw Paul reading the note and spoke to him gleefully: 

“Do you want to feed birds, sir? We sell special treats for them for only one pound a packet.”

“What’s wrong with bread then?” John chimed in, suddenly feeling curious.

“Bread’s bad for their health, sir. It doesn’t give them enough nutrition,” the seller-girl answered with her chin lifted up.

“Huh,” John huffed, crossing his hands. “Ducks aren’t stupid, are they? They wouldn’t eat something that might be potentially harmful to them.”

Paul chuckled and John glanced at him sternly.

“Junk food is harmful to us too, although it doesn’t stop us eating it,” the girl stated decisively.

“Good point,” Paul said, giving her a wink. The girl giggled foolishly.

John shook his head at both of them. He wrapped his arm around Paul’s waist, pulling him closer and looking narrowly at him, “You wanna feed _some_ birds, luv?”

“Sure,” Paul said, grinning. “Yeah, why not?”

“Right,” John mumbled, still staring at Paul. “We’ll take two,” he said, letting Paul go. John didn’t even look at the girl once, ignoring her existence.

The food -- that was supposed to be for John and Paul in the first place -- was completely forgotten and was replaced by two, small packages of corns, nuts, and oats. John’s stomach roared discontentedly but the ducks seemed happy, swimming in circles and diving for the edibles. There was one shabby duck that couldn’t get any of the treats, being shielded by the bodies of bigger ducks. The sight of the poor bird broke Paul’s heart and he threw it an almond, aiming the nut near it but getting it at the duck’s head. The bird cackled disapprovingly but swallowed the almond.

John, who had witnessed it all, cackled too, but, in his case, with laughter. Paul smacked him lightly on his hip, “Don’t be cruel. This duckling must be starving.”

“This is natural selection, dear. There’s nothing we can do. The poor birdie’s smaller than his fellow ducks, it just can’t gain access to the food.”

“It’s not fair,” Paul said in a flat voice and threw another nut at the shabby duck. This time the nut splashed right before it.

Silently, John gazed at Paul in astonishment. Then he fumbled about in his packet for the biggest nut and launched it at the duck; the nut landed a few inches before it. The duck swam for it swiftly and got its nut in victory.

Paul smiled and jostled John with his elbow, “See? There’s still hope for the ugly duckling.”

John shot Paul a questioning look, squinting his eyes into slits, “You’re not speaking about me, are you?”

“Git,” Paul chucked quietly and pulled John for a hug. “You and your stupid assumptions,” he whispered against John’s neck. A sudden gust of spring-warm wind tousled their hair, bringing a scent of wildflowers and breeze off the pond. Paul ran his fingers through John’s auburn hair and kissed him on the lips. 

“I’m not good at getting the hints, you know,” John whispered, his nose nuzzling Paul under his ear. “Just wanted to be sure.”

Paul hummed something in response, busking in the sunlight and John’s lips against his skin for another minute or two. He pushed John away gently, grabbing his hand instead. The sun was shining brighter and it hard to look at each other with the sunbeams streaming down from the cloudless sky. It made John narrow his eyes, turning his stare into a sensual, sultry gaze.

Paul wondered if John realized how seductively attractive he looked right now.

“I’m gonna fall into the pond right over if you keep looking at me like that,” Paul rebuked his mildly, but smiling anyway. “And I’m taking you with me, don’t you doubt it.”

John laughed heartily, “There’s a bench right behind us, you know. Let’s sit down there a bit.”

“Come on then.”

They emptied the remains of their packets into the water before they lounged on the bench, sitting there in each other’s arms, and looking at duck splashing about.

“Paul?” John said after a while.

“Mm?”

“Can I please ask you something with your promise that you won’t get mad at me?”

Paul turned his head and looked closely at John, promising, “I won’t get mad at you, all right.”

John took a deep breath and blundered out, “Have you talked to yer parents yet? Did they really like me?”

Paul stifled a sigh, “They liked you. Really.”

“But have you talked to them after—you know.” John raised his eyebrows.

“No, I haven’t,” Paul responded as calm as he could. “Do you want me to call them right now?”

“Well,” John shrugged. “Yes.”

Well. Paul hadn’t expected that answer.

“Oh, come on, can’t it wait?”

“You suggested it.”

“Oh, please,” Paul groaned as he threw his head back. “I thought you didn’t care what other people think about you. What difference does it make now?”

“There’re exceptions,” John muttered, his eyes fixed on Paul. “And I know it’s important for you too. If your dad doesn’t like me, then what? Will you still be with me?”

Paul lifted his head, looking straight into John’s eyes. “Yes,” he said firmly.   

Silence.

“What about your mum then?”

Paul didn’t respond to that but groped for his smartphone inside the pocket of his jeans. Immediately, under John’s _‘what’re you doing?’_ and _‘who’re calling to?’_ vexing questions, he rang to his mum.

“Hey, mum. How’re you?” Paul said jovially, making John shut up at once. “Oh, I’m great too, you know. How’s dad, by the way. Oh, okay. Yeah. What? Oh, the birds? Yeah, we’re actually at the park now, John and I, I mean. What?” Paul cast a brief, roguish look at John. “John’s fine. He was asking about you and dad, though. Wait a minute,” as he said it, Paul took his phone away from his ear and put it on speaker. “Listen, mum, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, dear.” John could hear Paul’s mum talking.

“Well, do you and dad like John? Do you?”

“Of course we liked him!” The voice of Paul’ mother shouted through the speaker as a lone stranger with a corgi-dog walked passed their bench, taking a quick look at them. “John’s very lovely and kind, and he’s a very good-humoured young man. And he cares a lot about you, you can see it with the naked eye, my dear.”

“And dad? Did he like John too?”  

“Yes, dear. As long as you happy your dad’s happy too.”

“Thanks, mum,” Paul said, smiling gently at John. “Say hi to dad.”

“Of course. Say hi to John. Say that he’s a part of our family now.”

“I will. Love you, mum.”

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

Paul hung up and pulled John close to his chest. “Convinced now?”

Grinning from ear to ear, John snogged Paul ardently.


	11. In which John and Paul choose a kitchen utensil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like I can't stop scribbling lovey-dovey fluff. Anyway, this chapter is really short so it might not be so tedious to read :)

“So,” Paul said in the morning; tousled, languid, chewing on the Nutella sandwich. “They’re getting hitched on 20th May, right?”

“Yeah,” John answered and sipped his coffee. “On Astrid’s birthday.”

“Sneaky.”

“Yup,” John nodded. “We should get married on yer birthday too.”

“Pardon me?” Paul chuckled, cocking an eyebrow.  

“Well, you know,” John shrugged. “Mine’s in autumn and I wouldn’t call it a warm, sunny season.”

“Not on my birthday, darling. I’m not getting one present.”

“Aha!” John exclaimed in a playful fashion. “So that’s a yes?”

“Course, that’s s a yes. If it’s ever gonna happen, it wouldn’t be on my birthday, that’s all.”

“Mmm,” John hummed, buttering another sandwich. “You’re breaking my heart, kitten.”

Paul shook his head slightly, “Anyway, have you considered a present yet?”

“Yer not getting any present this year, McCartney,” John grumbled.

“Okay,” Paul accepted his loss. “What about Stu’s wedding then?”

“I dunno, really. He said he wouldn’t be mad without having one.”

“Mm. That’s not true. Everyone says that, you know. He’s just being cagey.”

“Uh-huh.”

“At any rate, we should get him a prezzie, John.”

“Oh god,” John groaned. “What kind of prezzie, Macca?”

“Dunno, he’s yer mate. What does he like?”

“Astrid,” John simpered, “oh, and art too.”  

“Okay, that’s something. Alas, we can’t kidnap Astrid and give her back to her fiancé with a ribbon, so let’s give thought to the second option, which is art.”

“The first option sounds more like fun, though,” John said with a mouthful of sandwich.

“Agreed,” Paul nodded. “But that’s not the point, Johnny.”

“Argh. I know shit about wedding prezzies, luv. Mahogany easel? Salvador Dali's biography with so-called exclusive pictures? A box of HB pencils?”

“Pencils…” Paul grimaced a thoughtful face.

“You think?” John asked, gingering up.

“Nah. But let’s keep that in mind.”

In silence, Paul massaged his bottom lip with his thumb and index fingers. John chewed on his sandwich.

“Alright, here’s a final solution,” John said after a while. “I’m gonna ask Stu bluntly about it. He might have a wishing list or something.”

“Good lad,” Paul praised his beloved one, who was now eagerly tapping something on his smartphone. “You what,” Paul arched an eyebrow, “gonna ask him now?”

“Yeah, why?” John peeped at him.  

“Nothing.”

Paul didn’t receive a response. Apparently, Stu had texted John back, judging by nimble tapping of John’s fingers on the screen.  With a sigh, Paul stood up and started washing the dishes. He was about to finish when John let out a ringing guffaw.

“What?” Paul asked as he was rinsing the last dirty mug.  

“You’re not gonna believe this, cupcake.”

“Try me,” Paul turned off the faucet and braced himself against the sink, facing his lover.

“We’re getting him a toaster!” John announced in jovial, _we-are-expecting-a-baby_ kind of tone.

“Nice. Then again, whose idea it was in the first place, mm?”

“I’d never have figured it out on my own. From all of the stuff… Stu wished for a toaster.”

“Yeah. Blows my mind,” Paul said in jest, secretly thinking that a toaster wasn’t such a useless device after all.

***

Later they sat cosily at the sofa, with Paul’s hand around John’s shoulders, and the laptop on John’s lap, searching for a perfect _(modern but not too expensive)_ present for Stu and Astrid.

“They all look the same to me,” John said, scrolling down the most-wished-for section on the site. “Here, look at these ones. They both have the same functions but the black one costs fifteen pounds while the red one is over thirty-five. So much for the red colour.”

“Pff, they’re not the same, Johnny. The black one has four speeds, while the red one has seven.”

“Yeah, but the seven speed will serve you a burnt to a crisp piece of coal.”

“Well, there's no accounting for taste. Besides, the black one can’t defrost.”

“What is there to defrost?” John huffed, turning his head to look at Paul.

“Well, I guess some people store their bread in fridges, John.”

“Perverts.”

Paul chuckled, squeezing John’s shoulder. “You know what,” he said, “I think you should stick with that silver one. It has six speeds, defrost and reheat. And it can toast bagels too.”

John looked at Paul with a wry smile, “Are you gonna look in front of you now and name the brand of the toaster for the hidden camera? Come on, how much did they pay you?”

Paul jabbed John with a finger in his ribs.

“Oi!”

“Nitwit,” Paul chuckled again. “We can split the price, you know. Me being your plus one and all.”

John fell silent.

“You sure, Paul? I don’t want you to… you know, feel compelled or something.” 

“Compelled?” Paul scolded. He cupped John’s head and gazed at him closely. “Where did that come from?”

“’cause I’m kinda taking ye on a weekend trip,” John mumbled, sounding funny, since it was a little bit difficult for him to talk clearly due to Paul’s palms pressed against his cheeks. “I don’t want you to spend more dosh that’s necessary for you.” 

“John love,” Paul moved closer to John’s face, his nose touching his lover’s. “You’re talking rubbish.” He pecked John on his mouth. John smiled against Paul’s lips, carefully releasing one of his hands to stroke Paul’s hair that always was so smooth and silky.

Their tender kiss became passionate quite quickly. Begrudgingly, John tore his lips from Paul’s only to put the laptop away from his lap. The next thing he knew was Paul’s hot body atop of him.


	12. In which John and Paul record a song

It was in the middle of the week when Paul raking through his wardrobe, puzzling about how come there a discorded heap of John’s clothes had wormed its way onto his shelves. Had he missed John’s well-thought-out strategy of moving-in into his flat? Or had he been imagining things? Whatever that answer was, right now he had to get dressed for his work and that required finding a clean, ironed something that preferably belonged to him.

That something turned out to be a nut brown, turtleneck sweater that Paul had trouble to remember if it was really his. It must have been his, given that the sweater fitted his thin frame like a second skin. He finished off his attire with a pair of black slim-fit jeans and went outside without having breakfast. And for a moment it seemed strange not to have John around playing househusband. In fact, John could cook quite well actually and could get even better if he’d been practicing. As for Paul, cooking just wasn’t his cup of tea, and he could only concoct the basic two or three meals for bachelors such as omelette, fried or scrambled eggs. Needless to say, he’d been sick to death of eggs by now.

Walking by the baker’s shop, Paul wondered if John could make pasties filled with chocolate cream.

***

John stopped in front of the recording studio, taking his time and catching his breath. He was going to record his first song now and Paul would be by his side, supporting him through it. Literally, he was standing on the threshold of his dream that, in all senses, was granted because of Paul. Not only he wouldn’t have been persuaded that he was worthy of it but also, just as important as having confidence in himself, he wouldn’t have been holding a guitar in his hands ever again if it hadn’t been for Paul, if he hadn’t met him.

John pushed the glass door and entered inside. Although he had been here earlier, having a private mini-tour once and waiting for Paul outside, the stateliness of the hall struck him as forcefully as it had the first time, with all those wood-panelling walls with vinyl records and album covers, musical gears and equipment.  

“John!” Paul exclaimed, sitting in an armchair with a cup of coffee in his hand.

With a smile, John walked over to Paul and stood before him, saying, “Well, look at you! Big fish, aren’t we?”

Paul laughed and rose to his feet, facing John, “What made you think so? Hm?” He ran his finger along John’s hand. “Tell me.”

John smirked his lips, “You look like you own this place,” he paused, quickly adding: “Mr McCartney.”

Paul laughed again and squeezed John’s arm, “Let’s go, luv. Everybody’s waiting for you already.”

*** 

Paul knew that there wouldn’t be enough time to finish John’s song in one day. Thankfully, there was no booking for the recording room and the studio was almost empty except for some staff members and a bunch of session musicians whom Paul had coaxed into backing for John without payment. Nobody, whom Paul had asked, had the guts to turn Paul down, given that there was almost no one in the studio who hadn’t owed Paul a favour for his open-handed help with one thing or another. Therefore, he’d easily assembled a group of six people including him, John and Ringo.

Paul could see how hard it was for John at the very beginning, the whole recording process being alien to him. Several times John had lost his temper and Paul had to calm him down, reassuring him that there was no ground to distrust his playing and vocal skills. There also was a moment of an intense tension when Paul suggested that John should lay aside his acoustic guitar and play the electric one instead.

“I’ve never played the electric guitar, Paul!” John burst out, annoyed and vexed.

“It’s just the same,” was a response, “besides, you won’t even notice a difference!” 

“Why can’t Rick play it?”

“Because he doesn’t know how! Do you wanna teach him the chords or what? I mean, let’s change the lead instrument, okay? Just play the same chords you did on the acoustic guitar, all right? You don’t have to change anything else.”

“Why?”

“Let’s see if it gonna sound as good as it is now but in the different genre, what d’you think?”

The answer was yes, reluctant and hesitant, and indeed the song sounded better with that guitar and they had to redo it all over again. 

***

John hadn’t imagined it would be so hard to record one, smallish song. On top of that, he didn’t understand why he’d agreed to do it in the first place, and so he expressed his thoughts in words, staring intently at Paul.

“Because it’s now my song, you dedicated it to me,” Paul would brush off any objections, having none of them, being too drawn into the recording process. “Right?”

“Huh?” John blinked, taken aback by Paul’s plainness. “Well, yeah, I dedicated it to you.”

“That’s right. That’s why we’re recording it.”

And there would be no more demurrals.

***

The first break was long after the afternoon in the kitchen with John, Paul, Rick and Alan. All of them were drinking coffee and chewing on canapés that had been left over in the fridge since yesterday.

“You have here some kind of party the other day or what?” John asked, indicating with his chin the platter of leftovers. “There's quite a lot of it, actually.”

“There were more,” said Rick the guitarist.

“Yeah, we’re not starving in here,” said Alan the pianist.

“I see,” John nodded. “But where did it all come from?”

“Well, actually,” Paul started but didn’t finish as he was cut off with the steam of music coming from the other room. It was a catchy, popular in its time song that had been released almost twenty years ago, and for John it was amusing that somebody had still been listening to it.

Walking in with a swaying gait, Ringo outstretched his hands towards Paul, mouthing the lyrics of the song, “ _Baby if you give it to me, I'll give it to you, I know what you want, you know I got it_ …”

Paul smirked his lips, hearing both Rick and Alan burst into laughter who nearly doubled over with hysterics when Ringo fell on his knees before Paul, looking up at him with puppy eyes. “ _I'ma stand as a man never above ya, I can tell that you different from most, slightly approach you, and that ill shit about it, we gon' sex every day_ …”

“Hey!” John exclaimed, pulling Paul into his arms, making his boyfriend choke on his coffee. “He’s busy!”

“Like how?” Ringo asked as he made the song play quieter.

“Like with me,” John pouted and kissed Paul’s temple. “Right, baby?” he added, looking at Paul.

“Mmm,” Paul hummed, smiling, “Ringo’s offer’s quite appealing though.”

“Jesus, how much sex d’you need, you maniac!”

The kitchen was filled with a new gale of laughter.

The tiring atmosphere of recording a song was lightened up.


	13. In which Paul meets John’s ex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, folks, I'm a little bit busy and can't post regularly. I think there's going to be only one or two more chapters during this week.

Impetuously, Paul rammed John into the wall, kissing his neck and shoulders, disposing John of his clothes. He’d barely managed to close the front door of his own flat, wanting John too much to be slow or tender. Almost angrily, he kissed John on his lips, undoing his buckle.

“God… Paulie… just a… silly… song…” John breathed out between kisses, aflame with desire.

“One more word, luv, and--” Paul paused, looking eagerly into John’s eyes, saying decisively, “and I’ll punish you.”

John smirked lopsidedly at the remark. It was one of Paul’s moods he liked best.

“Oh, yes-yes!” John exclaimed jovially, close to clapping his hands like a child receiving a birthday present.

“Well, in that case…” Paul said, smiling at John in the most seductive manner. Enraptured by Paul’s salacious look, John licked his lips in anticipation as he was pulled by his arm into the bedroom.

***

“That was…”

“Yeah.”

Laying on his back, John turned his head at Paul, who was on his back too and in the same condition: sweaty, flushed and tousled, completely shagged out.

“God,” John gasped, smiling fondly, “if you’re like this just from one song, what’d you be after an album?”  

“I think,” Paul said, grinning back at John. “I think I’d be very thrilled. Jesus, Johnny, why don't we record one? I mean, you and me, writing and composing together. I’ve written a few songs myself, you know. Well, you _don’t_ know, obviously…”

John looked at Paul in astonishment, “Huh, it turns out that I’m bolder after all.”

“Rather... well, what’s the word? Um, death-or-glory, I’d say.”

“Mm… if you like.”

“Oh, by the way, have I told you that I should be tomorrow at work by noon?”

“Oh really? That means we can loaf about in bed a little bit longer in the morning, doesn’t it?” John smiled broadly, pulling Paul into his arms. He buried his nose into Paul’s hair and nuzzled him coltishly. Paul gave a boisterous laugh and hugged John back.

“Well, actually, I have something else in mind.”

“What?” John mumbled, with his nose still hidden in Paul’s hair.

“A breakfast at a café, hm? How does it sound to you?”

“Breakfast in bed sounds better.”

“My fridge’s empty, I’m afraid,” Paul said as he was running his fingers through John’s hair.

“As always, I’m afraid.”

Paul smiled, “You’ll have to serve us a breakie, I’m afraid.”

“You’ll have to write me a song for that… I’m afraid.”

“Oh… I surely will.”

***

In the morning they walked unhurriedly along the streets that smelled of the night rain, fresh and clear. The day was promising to be brisk but not cold that would bring a gust of invigorating northern wind.

They sat in a patisserie cafe with the tables outside on the street. There were small pots with yellow flowers on each table, and the tables were wooden and round.

John ordered himself Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream while Paul asked for a traditional full English breakfast.

“Tell me,” John said, “how come you eat so much and stay so slim?”

“I don’t eat much,” Paul answered, munching his roasted tomatoes.

“You do. Every time we spend time together you’re chewing on some junk.”

“I don’t, really.”

“Yes, you do. While I get fatter just by smelling water.”

“Come on, this is not true. Besides, there’s a simple secret of my…mm… slenderness.”

“What secret?” John asked, unconsciously leaning a little bit forward over the table.

“Well. Do you remember the usual state of my fridge?”

“Yeah. Cold and empty. Just like my bed without you.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, laughing. “Exactly. Keep that in mind.”

“Huh?” John didn’t get him.

“My fridge’s always empty. I just don’t eat at home… at all.”

“Huh,” John pondered, with his eyes froze on Paul’s meal.

“Exactly,” Paul winked and took a mouthful of orange juice.

“You must be hungry all the time. about this some other time, please?

“Not all the time, just at home. But you know, I wouldn’t mind eating your carbonara after I come back from work.”

“That can be easily arranged, Paul,” John said and looked aside, avoiding Paul’s eyes. For some time now, the question of moving in together had become a sensitive spot that was awkward to discuss. John glanced a quick look on the walking by strangers and frowned.

“John… can we talk about this some other time, please? You know, I--” Paul’s voice trailed off as he’d noticed John wasn’t paying him much attention, his face looking furrowed and puzzled. “John?” Paul tried again but John’s mind was still somewhere else. Paul traced John’s stared and spotted at what, or rather at who, John had his eyes fixed on. It was a young, thin lad with blue eyes and blond hair. The lad was, well, attractive and a keen sting of jealousy pierced in Paul’s chest. Paul looked back at John whose mouth was slightly agape now.

Okay then, if John wanted to be such a prick Paul would play along with that. Paul kitted his brows and his face became grumpy. He decided to ignore John and kept silent.

John turned his head back at Paul, saying quietly, “You see that blond lad over there?”

Paul kept his word and didn’t answer, but cast a brief look at the lad once more.

John didn’t notice Paul’s sudden mood switch and carried on, “He’s my ex. Jesse.”

Again, Paul peeked at the blond, this time catching sight of another stranger who’d been sitting with John’s ex at the same table in front of him. It was a middle-aged man with greyish hair, dressed in a dandy suit. Paul thought it was the lad’s dad.

“Oh,” Paul deadpanned. “Him.”

“Yeah,” John said quickly, slouching his shoulders. “D’you think he saw me?”

“I don’t know. He--” Paul fell silent as John’s ex turned his head, looking straight at Paul. Paul didn’t manage to look away swiftly and so it made the lad’s eyes linger a bit longer on him. He was about to turn his head back when his face turned bewildered and foolish. He’d noticed John, too. Paul turned his eyes away. “Yup, now he saw you,” Paul muttered.

“Great,” John whispered and the next moment a figure of his ex-lover hovered over the table.

“Lennie, hi! How’re you?” Jesse chirped happily, looking down at John.

Reluctantly, John lifted his eyes, “Oh, hi Jes. I’m fine, you?”

“Fabulous! Who's that with you?”

Curling his lips, Paul was looking at John in anticipation.

“This is Paul, my new lover.”

“Hi,” Paul said with a wry smile, waving his fingers in an impish manner.

“Hi, Paul! Nice to meet you!”

“You too.”

Awkward silence.

“So,” John cleared his throat. “Who’s that man over there with you?”

“His name’s Frank. We’re together. That’s it, my new boyfriend.”

 _Oh_ , Paul thought, _not dad but daddy, okay, well, that explains it._

“Good for you,” John smiled clumsily. “Well, good luck to you then.”

“Thank you, good luck to you, too! Both of you,” Jesse said, smiling widely at Paul.

“Ta, mate,” Paul felt a duty to say. 

“Well, it was nice to see you again, Lennie. We were very happy together.”

“Erm, yeah…” John mumbled and pulled a face like he’d swollen a lemon, “past time, you see.”

“I see,” Jesse paused, looking intently at John as if waiting for some kind of response or reaction from him. He received none of that, said goodbye and left to his beau.

“Lennie?” Paul asked, puffing out his cheeks.

“Don’t you go there.”

Paul burst out with laughter.  


End file.
